


Dreams of a Drunkard

by ancslove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1 Character Death, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, M/M, One Modern AU, Some minor violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 Things that never happened to Grantaire, and 1 that did - a series of drabbles.  Read the tags for warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plea

"Why him?"

The woman stared silently off into the distance, eerily still, but Grantaire hadn't really expected a response. Still, he had to try.

"What do you want? They sweat and cry and bleed for you, and for what? Why?"

This time, the elegant head turned toward him, large eyes blinking gravely. The voice, when it issued, was stately and surprisingly deep. "I want my people to live safe and free."

Grantaire snorted. Safety and freedom were relative things, and Her people would simultaneously never feel just how much they lacked and never be satisfied with what they had.

"And your champion? What of his safety? He endangers himself, enslaves himself for you. What do you give him? What do you want of him?"

Patria did not deign to answer, and Grantaire slammed a furious fist into the wall. He couldn't do it. He would argue until he was blue in the face for Enjolras' life, but it was no use. Much as he longed to, he couldn't be the champion's champion.


	2. Strat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character Death

The riot had been a small thing, one of those fleeting stirrings of anger but not heart, that might have been a prelude to a greater rising, but more often than not died out, leaving no mark. Enjolras had been hurrying out of the way, he'd already seen that there was no need for him here, and Grantaire had been trotting on his heels. Shots started ringing out, and Enjolras had ducked into the alley, dragging Grantaire with him.

The bullet that changed everything was a stray, ricocheting off the stone wall with enough force that it burned straight through the flesh that hadn't expected to be in its path. Grantaire fell against him, dead before Enjolras could lower him to the ground.

It was his fault. He'd stayed near the mouth of the alley, wanting to keep an eye on the action, and Grantaire had stayed to keep an eye on him. His fault that Grantaire, the one among them who stayed purely in the name of friendship not Patria, had died for nothing.

And so Enjolras stayed with him, holding him close, trembling. He couldn't cry, not yet, but he could mourn. For a friend lost, a life snuffed out, a potential never fully realized. On his knees, heedless of the blood congealing in his lap, he cradled the broken head and grieved.


	3. Comforter

Grantaire ambled through the back door. The room was quiet and dark, still a bit too early for the usual evening crowd. A soft sound broke the silence, startling Grantaire just before he settled in his usual seat. In the opposite corner, dim light shaded the small pallet, limning the figure that crouched there. Grantaire drew closer, cautious and curious. The shimmer of golden hair gave away the identity.

"Enjolras."

Enjolras looked up quickly, clearly caught off guard. A dark bruise smudged his cheekbone, another shadowed the opposite corner of his mouth. One sleeve was rolled all the way up to his shoulder, exposing a deep gash through his upper arm; he'd been tending that wound when Grantaire entered. Beside him on the pallet were a bundle of old cloths and a basin of water. Grantaire's eyes took in the disparate elements, and the resulting picture started his blood boiling.

"I didn't notice you enter," Enjolras began, almost uncertainly. Thrown off-balance by the statement, Grantaire nodded.

" "S'all right. I didn't see you at first, either. How did this happen? And why'd you come here, rather than seeing Combeferre or Joly?"

"They had knives, I didn't. And here was closer." Nothing more, and Grantaire didn't prod. Instead, he knelt down and grabbed a cloth, dipping it in the water and dabbing away a trail of blood running down Enjolras' arm. The cut was deep and angry-looking, bleeding freely.

"Here, let me help."

Enjolras pulled back. "Do you even know what you're doing here?"

A low laugh, tinged with bitterness. "Oh, yes. I got into more than my share of messes, growing up, and learned to patch up my own wounds." He didn't say that most of those wounds came from the males his own family.

"And are you sober enough to remember how?"

"I am now."

Blue eyes measured him impassively, then finally softened. "Very well. Thank you."

As Grantaire cleaned and bandaged the gash (he thought it might need stitching, but they had no supplies here and Enjolras didn't seem willing to go fetch some), he nearly smiled to himself, happy that he could be of help to his friend and idol, even as another part of him still burned in fury that anyone would dare lay hands on Enjolras. Tying off the bandage around Enjolras' bicep, Grantaire turned his attention to the assortment of other bruises and cuts peeking through ripped clothing. He tended each gently, and then did smile when he felt the residual tension leave the blond.

"That's the best I can do. Have Joly check your arm soon."

"Thank you, again," came the sleepy reply, and Enjolras' eyelids drooped.

Grantaire risked a quick pat of the hand, "You should rest a bit. Speed the healing process." A smile, "The pallet's quite comfortable, I've spent a few nights on it myself!"

Automatic protest. "I shouldn't. What time is it, anyway? The others should be arriving soon."

"Shh," Grantaire soothed. "You've some time still, and you would tell any of the others the same. I'll wake you when the first ones appear."

The half-wary glance hurt him, but then Enjolras relaxed. "All right."

Hiding his victory, Grantaire straightened his friend's clothing and then helped him lie down, drawing the blanket over him. Once he was certain that Enjolras slept, he perched next to him and pillowed Enjolras' head in his lap. Entwining his fingers in the soft hair, he settled down to guard his charge.


	4. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU

Grantaire slumped dejectedly on the porch step. He wasn't surprised. Not really. He'd been more than half expecting this outcome. He was an outsider at school, not one of the popular crowd, but his mother insisted that he invite all the boys of his grade to his birthday party. And now, not one showed up.

He hadn't expected the popular boys to come, anyway. Or the unpopular boys who all hung out with each other and still ignored him. Being the absolute lowest rung on the social ladder was an awful feeling. He did have two sort-of friends, but they'd canceled at the last minute. Bossuet had broken his arm and collarbone this morning and was now in the hospital. Joly stayed by his side, choosing his best friend over his sort-of friend. Grantaire couldn't blame him, but it still sucked, all the same. He should at least have one friend on his birthday, just one short day each year.

There was one other boy whom he'd desperately hoped would come, but that was a dream. A fantasy. Enjolras wasn't like the other "cool" kids. He kept largely to himself, and Grantaire found a measure of comfort in that small similarity, but there the comparison ended. Enjolras seemed well-liked and admired, despite his plain disinterest in socializing. He was wealthy, confident, smart, and breathtakingly gorgeous. And, unlike so many of his other bright and well-off classmates, he'd never been cruel or dismissive to Grantaire. He'd even stopped the class bully from taking on Grantaire once, thus solidifying Grantaire's hero worship of him. Grantaire had allowed himself, just this once, to dream that Enjolras would come. This is why Grantaire didn't dream. And so, he indulged in a bout of well-earned self-pity, and sulked.

He was so lost in his depression, he didn't notice the shadow that fell over him. Only when he felt the newcomer take a seat next to him did he look up, and then lost all coherent thought. Enjolras. Here. Sitting beside him, neatly wrapped gift tucked under his arm, and offering a diffident smile that still outshone the sun.

"I'm sorry for not being here sooner. Am I too late?"

Grantaire's face blossomed in a full, uncharacteristic smile as he reached for Enjolras' hand to draw him inside.

"Not at all!"


	5. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slash, Sex

"Why am I letting you do this, again?" Grantaire grumbled while Joly fastened the silk cravat over his eyes.

"Because we like the way you look, like this!" answered Bossuet, thwapping Grantaire's knee.

"So glad to be your entertainment for the night. I thought you were cheering me up, not vice versa."

Tying off the ends of the cravat, Joly soothed, "We are. You'll like this, I swear. And this way, you can imagine whoever you like."

Grantaire considered this and gave in. He usually imagined Enjolras when with his whores. It was why he preferred the slender blondes. He couldn't often find a match for his love's stunning blue eyes, but he enjoyed running his fingers through long blonde hair, and pretending. Well, the blindfold would make his illusion that much more real.

"Stay here, now," ordered Joly. The bed shifted as Joly and Bossuet both rose. Grantaire relaxed into the sheets, idly stroking himself, imagining that Enjolras' hand was on him.

He jumped when hands touched his shoulders and a body hovered over him. The hands, slender but strong, lay atop his collarbones, and Grantaire groped blindly upward to feel his new bedmate. His fingers came in contact with a hard chest, flat and muscled. A boy. Better and better. One hand slipped across the smooth chest to curve around the ribcage, and the other traveled up over a shoulder, then around to explore the fall of soft hair. Long, as he liked. He imagined it was blond.

The boy bent to taste his lips, and Grantaire the boy's nose crinkle. Before the other could withdraw, Grantaire pulled him down into a deep kiss. Lips parted and he took his time exploring the sweet, soft mouth. Finally, he let the whore pull back, and sighed dreamily, "Enjolras." A slip, but the whores usually didn't mind, and Grantaire really didn't care.

Liquid heat enveloped him, and his hands reflexively grasped at the boy's head, pulling the wet mouth further onto his cock. Soon, all words and thoughts were lost to the suckling mouth and nimble tongue. Pleasure frissured up and down his spine and he bucked his hips wildly against the boy's face. When he came, he clutched the boy's head against him, and spurted down the swallowing throat.

Grantaire collapsed against the bed, panting. Dimly, he could hear his guest moving about, shedding clothes, from the sounds he made. As he came down from his high, he imagined Enjolras undressing, baring that pale, perfect marble skin inch by inch. Fabric sliding down his limbs, falling gracefully from his body. Enjolras' eyes fixed on him as he disrobed, a silent promise. He moaned his love's name once more, and this time was answered by a quiet chuckle.

A very familiar chuckle. He froze, remembering that sound as Courfeyrac detailed his latest trials of seduction or Combeferre ranted about ignorant professors and even more stupid students. Warily, he sat up and his hand went to the blindfold. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? Probably, but he had to know.

With trembling fingers, he pulled away the strip of cloth and blinked into the light. Enjolras perched on one knee beside him, gloriously nude and with his bright hair still disheveled from Grantaire's own fingers. Grantaire gaped, unable to trust his own eyes. He was imagining still, asleep and dreaming that his idol was with him. He opened his mouth to speak, utterly unsure of what he was going to say, and then Enjolras' mouth was on his, warm and eager and tasting of Grantaire's own essence. Without breaking the kiss, Enjolras' hand came up to rest on Grantaire's shoulder and shoved, sending them both toppling back against the pillows.


	6. Peace

Shortly after midnight, Grantaire stumbled into the Musain, bruised and bloody. The back room was quiet as he collapsed into his usual corner to nurse his wounds, and his bruised ego. Even while drunk, he was normally quite a good brawler, but tonight the stars were against him. His original antagonist had found friends, and he was just on the wrong side of drunk to defend himself efficiently. Grabbing a spare napkin, Grantaire began to dab gingerly at a swelling bruise decorating his jaw. Well, that was hardly going to improve his already humble looks.

"Grantaire?" A sudden voice intruded into his thoughts, and a new hand knocked his own aside and grasped his chin, tilting his head. Grantaire blinked blearily up into a pair of blue eyes framed by waves of gold. Enjolras, materializing like a god out of the fog of drink and pain, dropped down onto one knee in front of him.

"What happened here?" Enjolras asked, as he pressed a napkin-wrapped pack of melting ice against the bruise.

"A fight. Lost. When did you get here?"

Enjolras snorted delicately, grimacing a bit against the waft of old alcohol, and shifted Grantaire's head into a better position to examine his injuries.

"Somehow, I am not surprised. Was the reason an important one? And I've been here for some hours, you're the one who just arrived." As he spoke, Enjolras continued to minister to the scrapes and bruises speckling Grantaire's face. Grantaire could only stare, wondering if he had in fact been knocked out with the last blow, and was now dreaming that his idol was with him. Finally, Enjolras' question registered in his brain, and he decided that he might as well answer. If this were a dream, it was certainly a nice one - best to prolong it.

" 'E insulted you. Called you a pretty ornament. I hit him. He and his friends his back."

Enjolras' hand paused its dabbing. "Oh. Well, thank you then, I suppose." And then, Grantaire half heard him mutter, "I think I shall never understand you fully."

Before Grantaire could ponder that last bit, the strong hands shifted to under his arms and began hauling him to his feet. Once standing, Enjolras maneuvered one of Grantaire's arms over his shoulder, and slid his own around Grantaire's waist.

"Come on, then. I don't think anything is broken, although I can call Combeferre or Joly if you like. If your fight started over me, the least I can do is take you home and put you to bed." He began half-walking, half-dragging his burden out the door.

Grantaire leaned into the blond, enjoying Enjolras' closeness and brusque care. For such an awful start, this night was improving rapidly. Still not quite sure that this wasn't all simply a wonderful dream, Grantaire relaxed and submitted himself happily to Enjolras' will.


End file.
